Epitaph
by lotsayaoi
Summary: An epilogue to ep. 4.16 "On the Head of a Pin." Dean is dying inside, Sam is going darkside...and Dean can't take anymore. Warning: this is severely depressing and contains lots of blood and emotional destruction. See my website for more!


Hi, people. I wrote this whilst sobbing and dying a little inside in the few hours after the epsiode "On the Head of a Pin" finished. While an amazing episode in itself, I was torn apart by some of the things that happened, especially how much Dean is suffering and how dark Sam is becoming. After all the emotional turmoil (not to mention my previous overwhelming disappointment in season four), this is what came out. I'm sure this won't be anything like what anyone wants, and it most definitely isn't what I want, but it is what it is. I just needed to let everything out, to cleanse myself, because if I hadn't...I honestly don't think I could have moved on.

btw: I am usually prone to Wincest (because it is severely awesome), but there is absolutely NO wincest intended in this fic. It's probably about the only 'general' fic I'll ever freaking write in this fandom - unless Kripke decides to unload another extrememly emotionally trying episode like this again).

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The last thing Sam knew before he woke up was falling asleep in the motel room with Ruby after visiting Dean in the hospital.

The first thing Sam knew once he did was an intense pain in his neck and shoulders. As he regained full consciousness, he was able to take in more - he was chained to the Star of David in the middle of the angels' warehouse, just as Alastair had been mere hours ago, and standing in the middle of a devil's trap.

Sam lifted his head heavily, feeling a wave of pain-induced nausea flood him as he looked around, seeking out his captor.

Dean was standing in front of him, eyes ablaze, face swollen and sliced apart from his fight with Alastair, hand resting passively upon the table of torture devices Castiel had provided for the interrogation. His eyes stared painfully upon his little brother, looking through him and into the deep-seeded demon that he was becoming. He couldn't see his brother anymore. Sammy was gone.

He was getting him back.

"Dean?" Sam asked, jerking forward in the chains. "Dean, please, you gotta help me. Get me outta here."

But even as he said it he knew - Dean had put him here, and Dean wasn't letting him go.

Dean's hand ghosted over a knife on the table for a moment, eyes never leaving Sam's, and he picked it up. He twirled and adjusted it in his hand without needing to look. Training had made it second nature.

"Dean…"

"Shut up, Sam." Dean's voice was deep, dark, full of contempt. "You're not leaving here until I have my brother back."

Dean closed the small distance between them, stepping easily over the salt line and devil's gate. He lifted the knife so Sam could see it - it was long, thick, and almost impossibly sharp. Sam tore his gaze away from it and looked back into his brother's eyes. There was no compassion, no regret, no apology. Sam pressed back against the Star, though he knew it was useless, and tried once more to talk to Dean.

"Please, Dean, whatever you're doing…just stop." He stared as deeply as he could, trying to convey how insane all this was.

Dean pressed the knife fiercely against Sam's cheek, pushing down into the gooey flesh until he almost broke the skin.

"Shut up, Sam," he growled. "This has gone way too far, and I'm finished."

He removed the knife from Sam's face and pressed it instead against his throat.

"Did you know this is all my fault?" Dean asked, voice cracking as he dragged the dull side of the blade against Sam's neck. "I was weak, and I broke the first seal. And now I have to stop the apocalypse."

He dropped the knife suddenly and smashed his palm against Sam's throat, mashing his Adam's apple and crushing his windpipe, before curling his fingers tightly around his neck and clenching into a fist with more strength than he normally would have he thought he had.

"All of this had been dropped on me, Sam. Me. I don't want this. I don't want any part of this anymore. But I can't do anything about it." He forced the tip of his blade into the fleshy part of Sam's cheek directly below his eyeball while Sam gasped in fright as he struggled for air. "But what I can do…is be goddamned sure I'm not alone."

Dean released Sam all at once, and Sam's head fell against his chest as he coughed and sputtered in an attempt to breathe again. Dean grabbed Sam's chin and forced him to look up at him.

"You're all I've got, Sam. The angels just keep me around to help them keep Lucifer down, Alastair uses me for his sick games, but you…you used to be my friend, my equal. Hell, Sam, you used to be my family." He brought the knife back up into view. "But now you're just another hellspawn, some twisted little puppet for that whore of yours, Ruby, to use toward her own sick ends!"

Dean grabbed roughly at Sam's shirt and yanked it apart, ripping some fabric and sending buttons flying. He sliced up Sam's undershirt and exposed the flesh beneath.

"No more." He crouched before Sam's restrained body, staring up into his face for a moment before concentrating all his attention on his brother's abdomen. "I'm getting my brother back."

Dean pressed the blade against the soft skin of Sam's stomach just below his navel until it split and dark blood started to stream from the wound. Sam's screams echoed through the warehouse as he shrieked in pain and begged for mercy.

"Dean, Dean please, no, stop, Dean!"

Dean ignored him. One more soul tortured, just another job to pad his résumé, but at least this time he could find a reason, could explain it as more than just an out. This time he was saving someone.

Being righteous.

The blade slid smoothly straight up Sam's stomach before making a sharp turn and swinging around his navel to the right, making a design like half a water vase. Then Dean started again and the same spot but turned instead to the left. The blood squirted and spewed forth as the damn broke, and Dean stopped cutting to examine it. It was red, of course, as all human blood was, but there was something about certain parts of it that were a different shade - darker, thicker, and - as Dean found out by testing the blood left on the bade - more bitter.

It was the demon blood. Sam had been infected by demon blood as a baby, which had caused his psychic powers four years ago. But that blood should have all been bled away by now, should have drained from him when he died - when his spine was cut and he'd fallen limply in Dean's arms. But here it was, in great profusion, and Dean knew he had been right.

Ruby. It wasn't just sex, it wasn't just training. It was blood. Her blood. It was infecting him, spreading through him like a virus. Dean placed the knife back into place, this time just below Sam's breastbone.

This was the cure.

This would cleanse him.

"Dean!" Sam literally cried, tears streaming down his face and neck as he writhed as best he could against the chains.

Dean didn't speak. He couldn't. This was what needed to happen, what Sam really needed.

He raked the blade against Sam's skin again, this time splitting it open along the dividing line of his abs, stopping about four inches above his navel. The cuts made an upside-down spade in this brother's flesh, red and screaming and oozing. Sam wouldn't stop screaming.

The blood was still too dark in places, but it would lighten soon enough. Bloodletting had been a ritual used in innumerable ancient societies, for uses as varied as worship, sacrifice, and treatment of disease. If anything was going to fix Sam and get Dean his brother back, it was this.

This, or the other thing. But Dean didn't want to think about the other thing.

Dean straightened and moved to his right, Sam's left, and he ripped the sleeve off Sam's shirt to expose his entire arm. The tip of the knife dented the skin of his bicep with only a second's hesitation before cutting a line all the way down the curve of the muscle to the crook of his elbow. The blood was lighter now, but the splotches of demon blood still held. Dean shredded Sam's forearm in a similar manner and examined the blood there, too - no change yet.

Dean traced Sam's other arm, collar bones, his pectorals, and his jawline, and still the demon blood persisted. Sam never stopped writhing, never stopped screaming or pleading or crying, but Dean continued regardless. He was close, he knew it.

Finally, Dean had carved every contour and every shape, and the blood wouldn't go. Sam had started to quiet down, face and skin pale from blood loss, but Dean couldn't stop now - if he let him heal, let him build up again, the demon blood might have time to multiply and take him over again. No, he had to keep going. And if he still couldn't get all the demon blood out…

Dean glanced at the table, but shuddered and looked back at Sam.

Two.

And one.

Dean dropped to his knees in front of Sam now and started wrenching Sam's blood-soaked jeans down his hips. He knew now, he knew where to cut, he knew…

It was just about the only thing he'd remembered from any high school class he'd ever taken. It was a Mayan ritual, a sacrifice. The final bloodshed.

Sam's dick was long and heavy in Dean's hand as he held it out to its full length. Dean held it steady and adjusted the knife to a better position in his hand. Some very distant part of him felt a little sick by just how much this was going hurt, but it was far removed from his present state and he ignored it easily. The blade settled just below the head, pressed down with forced precision, and sliced a long line from tip to base right on top. Sam let out a breathy scream, as much as he could with his strength. Dean wiped at the blood with his fingers and stared deeply into it.

It looked almost human.

"Of course," Dean muttered, shaking his head with disgust and returning to Sam's cock. "This was where she started, wasn't it? She fucked you the second she got you all alone, and ever since you've been her toy." He engraved another long line along one side. "I'm breaking the spell, Sammy." One last long cut…

Dean cupped his hand under Sam's dick and caught the blood flowing from it. He stirred it with one finger, searching for any sign of lingering infection, but whatever demonic blood was left was disappearing before his eyes.

Sam…

Sam was Sam again.

-

Sam lay on the concrete floor, wrapped in towels and bandages and resting his head in Dean's lap. He was still pale, and his hair was sticking to his forehead and cheeks with sweat, but his face was soft, muscles relaxed. Dean was sitting, back to the wall and eyes forward.

Sam was safe. He'd done his job, fixed everything he could, and taken care of Sammy.

If only that could be the end.

The apocalypse was nearing, the angels and the demons were hurrying it along, and as always Sam and Dean Winchester were forced into something they had no control over, no say in, and no choice about.

Not anymore. They were done being pawns, through being slaves. This ended now.

Dean helped Sam sit upright and lean against the wall. Hand on his brother's chest, Dean looked him in the eye.

"I love you, Sammy." He pressed his head into the wall, relaxed him there with his head lolling lazily.

Sam smiled, trusting, loving, as he'd been before this whole mess. Demonless, bloodless, powerless, he smiled.

"I love you, Dean…"

Dean leaned back again, letting his head and Sam's rest against each other for a few long moments before lifted the other thing in his right hand. His thumb moved automatically, with no thought after years of training and practice, and cocked the hammer into place. The metal was cool on his temple as he held it there, moving his head to line up with Sammy's. His index finger tensed, bent, and pulled the trigger.

The final spattering of blood against the wall where they lay…

At least it was all human.


End file.
